


Everybody Knows Your Name

by giraffeter



Series: Everybody Knows Your Name [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 'Swawesome Santa 2018, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Body Image, First Dates, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Romantic Fluff, cheers - Freeform, holster is in the nhl, jack is a bartender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeter/pseuds/giraffeter
Summary: Oh my God.Holster knows exactly where he’s seen that face before. He turns and punches Ransom in the arm. Ransom busts out laughing.“Why didn’t you tell me that Jack isJack Zimmermann?” Holster whispers furiously.“For this very moment, bro.” Ransom is wiping tears from his eyes. “You should see your face.”Jack Zimmermann. The guy everybody thought would be the number-one NHL draft pick the year he turned 18 (the year Holster turned 17), until he had some kind of breakdown and completely vanished from the hockey world. The ultimate hockey “Where Are They Now?” file.Jack the Sexy Voice Bartender isJack Zimmermann,which means he’s not just some cute bartender. He’s the guy Holster’s had a crush on since he was 16 years old.~*~NHL star Adam "Holster" Birkholtz goes to a bar after getting his eyes dilated for an exam, and falls for the bartender - who turns out to have a complicated history with hockey. Can he convince Jack to date someone from the world he's tried so hard to leave behind?





	Everybody Knows Your Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [halfabreath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/gifts).



> For 'Swawesomesanta 2018. Halfabreath says:
> 
> "I'd really love some NHL JackHoltz! Or, to be honest, any cliche au: coffee shop, flower shop/tattoo parlor, fake dating, enemies -> friends -> lovers, etc. The only things I don't want to read are character death, break ups, or sexual assault. "

Holster stares at the ceiling, trying not to blink too much. Periodically, the doctor moves the bright light, and he can see the veins of his retina lit up against the white background.

“OK, Adam,” Dr. Ishikawa finally says. “I don’t see any evidence of a retinal tear. The blurry vision you were experiencing was likely just a result of your concussion. Your eyes are fine.” She switches off the exam light and Holster sits up, blinking rapidly, eyes watering.

“That’s so great to hear, thanks Dr. I,” he says to her blurry outline. The combination of super-dilated eyes and sheer relief that he’s not going to need eye surgery is leaving him a little punchy, so he adds, “Oh my God, you’re _Doctor I_ …”

“Yes, I am.”

“..And you’re an _eye doctor_!”

“Well thank you, Adam, nobody’s ever pointed that out before,” she sighs, but he can tell from her voice that she’s smiling. “Your eyes are going to be dilated for the next 4 to 6 hours. Do you have somebody coming to pick you up?”

“Yeah, my roommate is coming.”

Holster manages to check out by himself, and a few minutes later finds himself stumbling out into afternoon sun. It’s almost unbearably bright - if Ransom was here, Holster would fall to his knees screaming _my eyes, my eyes_ , to make him laugh. But Ransom’s not here yet, and Holster doesn’t feel like alarming the passers-by today.

He pulls out his phone. “Siri, what time is it?”

“It’s three oh two pm,” Siri intones.

Ransom’s not picking him up until 4. “Text Ransom.”

“What do you want to say?”

“Hey man, comma, eye appointment got over early, period. No damage to the retina so that’s good, exclamation point! Heading to the bar next door to wait for you, comma, come by whenever, period. XOXO.”

He tries to walk in with an air of confidence, and not like someone to whom the interior is a dark smear. He strides forward in a straight line from the door, figuring he’ll be most likely to find the bar that way, and sure enough, it looms up out of the darkness as he gets close. He only fumbles a little getting up onto the bar stool.

“What can I getcha?”

Holster squints at the bartender, who he is reasonably sure is a white guy with black hair wearing a brown shirt. “What do you have on tap?”

There’s a moment of surprised silence. Holster sighs. “The taps are right in front of me, aren’t they?”

“Yep.”

“Sorry, I just got done at the eye doctor, I can’t see for shit right now.”

“That’s OK,” the bartender laughs. “We, euh, actually get that a lot in here. We’ve got Bud Light, Corona, Sam Adams, Stella Artois, Guinness, Harpoon IPA, and Whale Tale Pale.” His voice is low and soft, with a rich timbre that sends an appreciative zing through Holster. He’s always been a sucker for guys with deep voices. He has no idea what this guy looks like, but his voice is certainly sexy, with the hint of an accent that Holster’s heard too many times in his career not to recognize.

“I’ll have a Whale Tale.” He hears the bartender move away, the clink of glasses. It doesn’t sound like there are many people in here, which makes sense at 3 pm on a Thursday; some indie rock is playing softly in the background, but he doesn’t hear any other conversations.

 _With my eyesight compromised, my other senses are heightened_ , he tells himself. _I’m basically Daredevil right now_.

The general black-and-brown blur that is the bartender slides a glass toward him; Holster watches his beer come into something resembling focus as it approaches. “Thanks, man,” he says. Then, partly because he’s stuck here for an hour with no way to read or do anything on his phone, and partly because he wants to hear Sexy Voice Bartender talk some more, he asks, “Um, are you French Canadian?”

“Yeah,” Sexy Voice Bartender says, “I’m from Montréal, or just outside of it anyway.”

“What brought you to Boston?”

“I came out for school and just...never left.” His silhouette moves in a shrug. Holster tries not to peer at him like Hans Moleman. In addition to having a sexy voice, this guy appears to be tall and broad-shouldered - not as tall as Holster, he’s pretty sure, but most regular people aren’t. _I’m just going to go ahead and assume he’s hot_ , Holster decides. _It’s not like I have anything better to do._

Holster holds out his hand. “I’m Adam.”

The hand that grasps his is cool and long-fingered. “Jack.” There’s an awkward pause, one in which Holster wishes he could make out Sexy Voice Bartender’s - er, Jack’s - expression. Almost reluctantly, Jack adds, “...I know who you are.”

Holster can feel the blush rising to his face. He wishes he could get better at being recognized, but even after several years in the NHL it makes him feel clumsy, like his hands and feet have doubled in size. “Hockey fan, huh?” he says. “I should have guessed, being from Montréal and all.”

“Wow, you really can’t see at all right now, can you?” Jack asks, a teasing note coming into his voice. “There’s a huge Bruins poster on the wall over there. You’re on it.”

“Right.” Holster’s pretty sure he knows the poster Jack’s talking about; it’s a picture of the whole team. Holster is in the back row, leaning on Ransom’s shoulder, holding a hockey puck in his teeth. He wishes he could see better; it would be nice to gauge whether Jack is impressed or indifferent or contemptuous of the pro athlete drinking beer in his bar with giant pupils like a Precious Moments figurine. Jack hasn’t fanboyed out on him yet, though, so maybe it’s OK. Holster takes a long swig of his beer and ventures, “So...you’re from Canada, did you ever play any hockey?”

“I don’t know, you’re tall, did you ever play basketball?” Jack shoots back drily, but that same teasing tone is still in his voice.

Holster laughs. “Touché.”

“I did play hockey,” Jack admits. “But I stopped, after...high school.”

“Oh, word? What position did you play?”

“Centre.” Somehow the way he says it lets Holster know he’s spelling it with an -re, not an -er.

Jack strikes him as someone who doesn’t say much, but as Holster sits and sips his beer and Jack moves around the bar doing bartender stuff (Holster can’t see what it is, but he’s reasonably sure it’s bartender stuff), they fall into a conversational groove anyway. They talk about the current hockey season, then transition to talking about Boston sports in general, with a lengthy digression into the unique phenomenon that is Boston sports fans, as experienced by bartenders and pro athletes respectively. They talk about Québec compared to the US, and what it was like for Jack to emigrate here. Periodically Jack has to go pour someone a drink or do some other bar task, but he always ends up back across the bar from Holster, and the conversation continues until Holster’s beer is gone.

“You want another one of those?” Jack asks.

“Actually, how is the Harpoon IPA?”

“Oh...I hear it’s good.”

“You haven’t had it?”

“No...euh...I don’t drink, actually.”

“Really? Like at all?” Holster shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a bartender who doesn’t drink at _all._ ”

“I had a problem, when I was younger,” Jack says easily. “So now I’m pretty careful.”

“Wow,” Holster marvels. “You’ve got like, a whole Sam Malone vibe going.”

“...What?”

“Oh em gee, have you not seen _Cheers_? It’s, like, a hugely influential sitcom, and it takes place in a bar in Boston! How have you not seen it?”

“I don’t know, I grew up -”

“In Canada, I know, not, like, the moon! You have to watch it, it’s all on Netflix.”

“What’s it about?”

“WELL.” Holster is deep into an explanation of the dynamics between Sam, Diane, Coach, and the rest of the gang at Cheers when his phone buzzes. He peers at it, even moving it closer and farther away from his face like his Aunt Susan does when she doesn’t have her glasses on, but can’t see what the notification says. Should he just be that guy asking Siri to read him the text out loud in front of this entire bar that may or may not contain other patrons, or…?

“Hey,” he says to Jack, “this might be kind of weird, but can you read me this text I just got? I think it’s from my roommate Ransom, he’s supposed to be picking me up.”

“Sure.”

Holster holds the phone out, but instead of taking it from his hand, Jack grabs Holster’s wrist to steady it so he can read the text. Holster goes still, the world narrowing to the sensation of Jack’s cool fingers against his wrist. He’s sure he’s got Daredevil powers now, because he could swear he feels every millimeter of Jack’s skin touching his. The hairs on his arm stand up. _This is flirting, right?_ he thinks dizzily. _I’m not reading this wrong, this has to be flirting. God, I wish I could see his face._

Then Jack releases his wrist, and the moment is over. “It says, ‘Sorry, just now seeing this, see you in 20,’” Jack says dispassionately. “Did you want that second beer?”

“Um, yeah,” Holster smiles, just a regular guy smile, definitely not any kind of foolish grin, not on Adam Birkholtz, no sir. “You know it’s funny hearing you read his text, you say ‘sorry’ just like my roommate, he’s Canadian too. Oh, you’ve probably seen him, he plays for the Bruins, too.”

Jack sets the beer down in front of Holster. “So, Ransom, I’m assuming that’s Justin Oluransi?”

“Justin Oluransi, aka Ransom, aka my fellow d-man, my partner in crime, my brother from a Canadian mother, a gentleman and a scholar, that’s correct.” _Quit babbling_ _, Birkholtz_ , he admonishes himself. _You’re not a 13-year-old boy with a crush._

“I didn’t know you guys lived together.”

“Yeah! I mean, you know how d-men are. We spend so much time together, we just got to be...besties.”

Holster wishes he had better words for the person Ransom is in his life, the way they’d met at rookie camp and it had just been like _oh, yes, this,_ slotting seamlessly into each other’s lives like they’d been saving each other a spot. Sometimes he can just _feel_ Ransom, not just on the ice but other times too; he knows when Ransom is hungry or tired or worried about something, the same way Ransom knows when Holster has an injury that’s worse than he’s letting on. They take care of each other without making a big deal about it, and Ransom is maybe the only person in the world who can call Holster on his shit when he needs to be called on it without making the situation worse. In a lot of ways, Ransom is more family than his actual family to him. What do you call that person?

 _Best friends_ seems inadequate. _Brothers_ is closer, but feels weird to say to someone who doesn’t know them. _Bromance_ is too close to the rampant fan speculation about what Ransom and Holster get up to behind closed doors (no matter that the answer is mostly “cardio and video games,” people like to talk).

“That’s cool,” Jack says. “It’s nice that he could come pick you up.” For some reason, his voice has lost a bit of the warmth it held before; it’s politer, more distant.

Holster can’t think of anything smooth to say. “Well,” he falters, “it’s not every day you...don’t have a torn retina. I mean, I guess it is every day, or anyway most days, for most people, but...yeah.”

“I, for one, have spent my entire life not having a torn retina.” A bit of the smile has come back into Jack’s voice.

“Yeah, yeah, chirp, chirp.” Holster hides his grin in a sip of his beer.

When Ransom gets to the bar, he scares the crap out of Holster by coming up and putting a hand on his shoulder. _So much for my Daredevil powers_ , Holster thinks, suddenly glad he hadn’t rambled to Jack about being able to sense when Ransom’s there.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Ransom says.

“No worries, I can’t really see anything, everyone is just a blob to me.”

“Yeah no shit, dude, you look like Sailor Moon right now.”

“You mean _adorable_? I will take that compliment.” Holster gestures toward Jack’s blurred outline. “This is my new bro Jack, he’s been keeping me company while I waited for you.”

“Oh! Hey, man.” There’s something in Ransom’s voice Holster can’t place, but he can tell Ransom’s reaching out to shake Jack’s hand. “Thanks for looking out for my broseph over here.”

“No problem,” Jack says neutrally.

Holster fumbles in his wallet for some cash and, with Ransom’s assistance, leaves enough for his beers plus a generous tip. “Hey, it was great to meet you,” he says, holding out his hand for Jack to shake again. Does Jack hold on to his hand a moment longer than necessary? Or is Holster reading way too much into this entire interaction? “You should definitely check out _Cheers_.”

“I will.”

“Good, because next time I’m in here, we’re gonna talk about it!”

Holster lets Ransom steer him toward the car, and waits until they’ve turned a corner to sag dramatically against his friend’s shoulder. “Oh my God, dude, I think I’m in love.”

“With the bartender? You don’t even know what he looks like.”

That same odd quality is in Ransom’s voice, but Holster’s too high on infatuation and eye medicine to care. He quotes _Arrested Development_ at Ransom: “I know he’s a...brownish area, with...points.” Ransom chuckles. “Besides, looks aren’t everything. He was cool. _You_ saw him,” Holster points out. “Tell me what he looks like! Was he cute? He sounded cute.”

Ransom says, “Oh, he was _definitely_ cute,” and Holster realizes that the quirk in his voice is _barely restrained glee_ , for some reason.

“What?” he demands. “What do you know, what aren’t you telling me, what’s funny?”

“Nothing, never mind, I’ll tell you later.” Ransom still sounds amused as hell. “So are you going to go back and see him?”

“I mean, I think I gotta, right? Even if he ends up not being into dudes, we bonded. We’re bros now. Plus, I’m not passing up an opportunity to spread the Good Word of _Cheers._ ”

“Make sure you bring me with you, when you do.” Ransom opens the car door for Holster without asking; the passenger seat is already scooted back as far as it can go. “I am gonna wingman the shit out of this situation.”

Holster wipes away an imaginary tear. “Truly, you are a prince among bros.”

~*~

Holster has to get cleared by the team doctors to play again after his concussion, and then make up for the practice and workouts he missed while on concussion protocol. The next week sees him either in the weight room, on the ice, watching tape, or too wiped out from all of the above to do more than crash out on the couch.

Still, he keeps replaying moments from his conversation with Jack in his head and smiling. He and Ransom are partway through their third rewatch of _New Girl_ , but one night when Ransom’s not there to chirp him about it, Holster puts on an episode of _Cheers_.

 _Gotta study up,_ he tells himself. _Next time I talk to him I’m going to…_

What, exactly? Ask him out? Ask him if he’s into guys, _then_ ask him out? Ask him a carefully-orchestrated series of questions to see if he could be trusted to be discreet about dating Holster, _then_ ask him if he’s into guys, _then_ ask him out? Holster hasn’t gotten that far in the plan yet.

Holster’s known he was bisexual for a long time, basically since he found out it was a thing (he still remembers the way that knowledge smacked him in the head like a gong ringing, chasing the twin spectres of _but I know I like girls so how can I be gay_ and _do I really like him, or do I just wish I_ was _like him_ out of his head for the first time - _oh, it’s both, it can be both_ ). Once he hit the USHL, he had to keep his attraction to boys pretty quiet, but he still found the time for a summer romance or two. The NHL is a whole other story.

He knows he’s not the only player in the league (or, hell, even on his team) who’s into guys. His sexuality is something of an open secret on the team, and everyone seems more or less cool with it. That’s the team, though, not the _world_. There are no out queer players in the NHL, and Holster has no desire to be the one who changes that. These days, he mostly dates women; it’s just easier, and not exactly a hardship.

This guy, though - Jack - smart, chill, low-key hilarious, sexy voice, and a hockey fan to boot? Holster can’t get him out of his head. _So maybe I just go back there, talk to him again, see where it goes,_ he tells himself.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear Ransom come in. “Good Lord, he’s watching _Cheers_ ,” Ransom announces to the room at large. “You got it _bad_ , bro. My baby boy is in _love._ ”

“I met him one time.”

“Yeah, and look at you. There are, like, cartoon birds flying around your head.”

Holster buries his face in a throw pillow and mumbles, “I don’t even know if he likes boys.”

“And your strategy for finding this out is to sit here by yourself watching _Cheers_?” Ransom cocks a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Let’s go back to the bar. Let’s go _now_ , we don’t have AM practice tomorrow.”

“Right now?” Holster’s palms are starting to sweat. “We don’t even know if he’ll be there. He’s probably not even working tonight.”

Ransom’s already tapping at his phone. He puts it to his ear (ignoring a hissed “ _What are you doing?_ ” from Holster), and a moment later says “Hi, may I speak to Jack, please?...OK, thanks,” and hangs up. “He gets on at 7,” he reports. “Stop flailing and put on some nicer clothes.”

“I’m not flailing,” Holster protests, flailing. “I don’t know, maybe we should go another night.”

Ransom shrugs. “Well, _I’m_ going tonight. You can stay here by yourself, if you want.” He ducks a swat from Holster and grins. “I’ll let you know what he says about you.”

“You _suck!_ ” Holster calls over his shoulder as he heads for his bedroom to change.

“You _love me!_ ” Ransom calls back.

~*~

The bar - which, Holster learns, is called George’s - is actually pretty cool, now that Holster can actually see the inside. It’s casual without being divey, and while there’s a bunch of sports memorabilia on the walls - Holster clocks the Bruins poster Jack was talking about - there are also posters for local bands and signs for craft beers. There are a couple of TVs, but only above the bar - it’s not a _sports bar_ , which is good, because if it was, Ransom and Holster probably couldn’t hang out here.

They take seats at the bar, and Holster’s suddenly glad that there is about to be alcohol, because his stomach is trying to jump right out of his throat.

Ransom makes eye contact with him and holds it. “Be. Cool.”

 _Right, be cool, be cool, be cool, be cool_. He takes a deep breath. _How does anybody ever ask anybody out ever, I hate this._

A guy sporting a luxuriant mustache and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off saunters over. “What’ll it be, folks?” The guy’s voice doesn’t sound right - the accent’s more Massachusetts than Montréal - but Holster darts a look at Ransom anyway. Ransom gives a minute shake of his head. Not Jack, then.

They order, and Mustache Bartender pours their beers with a flourish. “I’m Shitty, if you need anything else,” he says as he walks off to take another order.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Ransom says, “Did he just say his name was _Shitty_?”

“That’s what I heard, too, but that can’t be right.” Holster stares after the guy, puzzled.

“What else could he have said?”

“I don’t know. Smitty?...Jimmy?”

“Chippy?”

“Maybe it’s Clippy. ‘I notice you’re trying to order a beer. Would you like help with that?’”

Ransom laughs, then sits up straight. “Look alive,” he mutters, gesturing with his chin toward the other end of the bar. A second bartender has walked out from the back and is testing one of the taps; his back is turned, but Holster can see that he’s tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair. _Jack_.

Holster tries not to stare too obviously. He’s been telling himself all week that it doesn’t matter what Jack looks like, all that matters is whether or not that connection he’d felt during that first conversation is still there, and that’s still true, but _hot damn_ Holster is also shallow enough to admit feeling a thrill at how hot Jack actually is. He lets his gaze linger on the long, elegant line of Jack’s neck, catch briefly on his wide and muscular shoulders, and drift down his back to his truly fabulous ass. _Hockey ass!_ he thinks, jubilant. _He may not have played hockey since high school but that’s a hockey ass if ever I’ve seen one._

Jack turns, and Holster gets the first glimpse of his face: square jaw, bright blue eyes, cheekbones like a fucking snowplow. _Oh yeah, we can definitely work with this_. Even though this is the first time Holster’s really laid eyes on him, Jack’s face already seems familiar.

Come to think of it, Jack’s face seems _really_ familiar. Actually, Holster’s certain he’s seen him somewhere before.

“Hang on…” he says aloud.

Ransom starts giggling. “Wait for it…”

 _Oh my God._ Holster knows exactly where he’s seen that face before. He turns and punches Ransom in the arm. Ransom busts out laughing.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Jack is _Jack Zimmermann?_ ” Holster whispers furiously.

“For this very moment, bro.” Ransom is wiping tears from his eyes. “You should see your face.”

Jack Zimmermann. Jack Zimmermann, son of four-time Stanley Cup winner and frequent NHL Network commentator Bob Zimmermann, fucking _hockey royalty._ Jack Zimmermann, one of the top 10 all-time scorers for the QMJHL. The guy everybody thought would be the number-one NHL draft pick the year he turned 18 (the year Holster turned 17), until he had some kind of breakdown and completely vanished from the hockey world. The ultimate hockey “Where Are They Now?” file.

Holster actually _saw him play_ , once, and it was like...when you see somebody who’s that good, you can’t even be mad. You can’t even be jealous, you just want to run up to them and congratulate them. Jack Zimmermann had played hockey like it was a goddamn ballet performance, and then he took off his helmet and looked...well, like that.

Jack the Sexy Voice Bartender is _Jack Zimmermann_ , which means he’s not just some cute bartender Holster’s trying to pick up. He’s the guy Holster’s had a crush on since he was 16 years old.

He briefly considers running screaming into the night, but it’s too late - they’ve been spotted. Jack’s face lights up in a wide-open grin, and even though Holster’s mind is reeling, he’s still gratified by how pleased Jack seems to see him. _Be cool_ , he tells himself again as Jack approaches. _Be cool_.

“Hey!” Jack says in that low, rich voice that, yep, still sends chills up Holster’s spine. “Good to see you back in here!”

Holster wants to say something, but unfortunately he’s forgotten every word. All of the words.

“Hi,” says Ransom, kicking Holster - hard - in the shin.

“Did you get your eye thing all sorted out?” Jack asks.

Holster kind of nods. Ransom kicks him again, and he manages to squeak, “Yep! All better, back to normal.” He keeps nodding. Jack’s eyes are so blue.

“That’s great,” Jack says, and it sounds like he really means it. “I like your glasses.”

“Thanks,” Holster responds automatically, and then, because it’s literally the only thing he can think of to say, he blurts out, “You’re Jack Zimmermann.”

Jack’s face falls. His shoulders shrink in slightly, and he drops his eyes to the shiny top of the bar. “Yes, I am,” he sighs.

“I saw you play, once, when you were in the Q. You were awesome, man.”

“Thank you.” Jack doesn’t look back up at him. There are a million things Holster wants to ask - _What happened to you? Why don’t you play hockey anymore? What are you doing tending bar? Would you be OK with a Jewish wedding?_ \- but he can see that Jack is tensed as if for a blow, his face a carefully neutral mask.

 _It’s none of your business, Adam_ , Holster tells himself sternly. Instead, he asks “Hey, did you end up watching _Cheers_?”

It’s clearly the right thing to say. Jack visibly relaxes. “Yeah, I watched a couple episodes.”

“And? What did you think?”

“I liked the music.”

“Right? That is one of the classic TV themes. ‘Making your way in the world today takes everything you got…’”

“It’s not a very realistic picture of what it’s like to work in a bar, but I guess nobody wants to watch Sam refilling ketchups for half an hour at the end of the night.”

Ransom stands up, patting Holster on the shoulder. “I’m gonna hit the restroom.”

Holster barely sees him leave. “So you liked it?” he asks Jack, leaning over the bar a little.

“Yeah.” Jack’s smile is a sweet little crooked thing. “It’s funny.”

“Oh man, you don’t even know. The first few episodes are mostly about establishing the characters. Wait until season 2, that’s when it really starts to pop off.”

It’s just like it was last time. Better, even. Jack is still a man of few words, but now Holster can see the things he’s saying without speaking: the shy smile that flits across his face, the flash of his eyes when he’s excited about something, the eloquent gestures of his dexterous hands. Holster has to quell some very distracting thoughts about those hands, and what they might be able to do, while he and Jack are talking.

It’s a slow night at the bar, and Jack and Holster have been talking for almost half an hour before Jack has to go attend to some other customers. It dawns on Holster that Ransom’s been in the bathroom for an awfully long time. He’s craning his neck to look around for him when Jack comes back.

“Everything OK?”

“Yeah, I was just looking around for Ransom, I hope he didn’t, like, get lost or something.”

Jack points over Holster’s shoulder. “He’s back there.” Holster turns to see Ransom standing with a couple of older guys, one of whom is wearing a Bruins shirt. They’re chattering at him with an air of great excitement, and Ransom’s got on the extra-patient smile he puts on when fans are being weird but he doesn’t want to be a dick.

They make eye contact over the fans’ heads. Holster raises his eyebrows, which means _You need me to come rescue you?_ Ransom’s smile turns from patient to a little cheeky, and he winks: _Nah, I’m good, but you owe me._

Holster turns back to Jack, who asks, “Is he OK over there?”

“He’s fine. Our GM always says that interacting with fans is ‘part of how we pay Boston back for the enormous privilege of playing here.’”

“Mm.” Jack’s refilling the garnish tray with lemon and lime wedges, olives, maraschino cherries. Holster indulges in the simple pleasure of watching him work for a moment. There’s a _focus_ there, and he’d be willing to bet it’s something Jack brings to everything he does. He’s a little intense, but Holster’s kind of into that.

“Can I ask you something?”

Jack eyes him a little warily. “Shoot.”

“Don’t you miss it? Playing hockey, I mean.”

“I still play hockey.”

“You do?”

Jack laughs. “Yes, I do. Well, sort of. I coach a peewee hockey team. They’re good kids.”

“Oh wow! I bet you’re a good coach.”

“Why do you say that?” His voice has taken on a little edge, and Holster senses he’s nearing some dangerous territory. If Holster was a betting man, he’d bet that Jack is expecting him to say _because your dad is Bad Bob Zimmermann_ , but that’s not what he means at all.

“Because.” Holster shrugs. “You’re a good listener.”

Just for a moment, there’s a soft, surprised, pleased look on Jack’s face, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Thanks,” he murmurs. Holster holds his gaze. There is something buzzing in the air between them, something electric, yet somehow delicate, the moment stretching out. Then Jack looks away, clears his throat, and the moment is gone.

“Well.” Once again, Holster is at a loss for what to say. “I should probably go rescue Ransom.”

“And I should probably get back to work.” Jack glances over his shoulder at Shitty or Smitty or whatever the guy’s name is, who has definitely been doing more than his fair share for the last half hour, slow night or not.

“Do you…” Holster takes a deep breath. “Do you want to, maybe, hang out sometime? We could watch _Cheers_ , or like...whatever.”

Jack blinks, looking surprised. “Oh! Um...sure.”

He doesn’t want to push. He knows bartenders get asked out a lot, and that it can be awkward to say no to a customer. He jots his number down on a napkin and slides it across the bar to Jack. “Sweet. Here’s my number, text me if you want to hang out.”

Jack slips the napkin into his back pocket, and Holster takes a second to think _lucky, lucky napkin_ before heading into the fray to rescue his beleaguered wingman.

~*~

Even though it makes for a late night, Jack has never really minded working the closing shift at the bar. The end of the night is full of small, meticulous tasks, and after a night of blaring music and background chatter, the bar is quiet. It’s an easy way to zone out and start to mentally recharge from the day.

Shitty is closing out the register. “Here’s your share of the tips,” he calls over his shoulder, indicating a stack of cash on the counter.

Jack takes a few bills off the top and moves them to Shitty’s pile. “You should take more than half.”

“Why, because I covered you while you were talking to _Adam fucking Birkholtz_ , NHL star, to whom you did not even introduce me?” Shitty moves the money back to Jack’s stack. “It’s cool, bro, it all pays the same rent anyway.”

“True.” Jack knows better than to argue with Shitty about this, especially since Shitty is weird about money to begin with, but privately resolves to pick up more than his fair share of the groceries this week.

“So what’s he like? Birkholtz, I mean.” Shitty has moved on from the register and is cleaning the soda guns.

“He’s nice.” _He’s a big giant dork,_ Jack thinks fondly, remembering Holster avidly dissecting the dynamics between Sam, Diane, and Carla on _Cheers._ _He’s smart, and earnest, and he seems kind._ Holster had backed off of the topic of Jack’s notoriety quickly after that first shock of recognition now that he can see properly, had kept a respectful distance from all the tedious topics that hockey fans usually loved to rehash with Jack. _He has a killer smile._ “He seemed...nice.”

“Uh-huh. I know you’re always spending half an hour, which is like a million years in Jack Zimmermann Conversation Time, talking to handsome dudes who ‘seem nice.’ That checks out.”

“What are you saying?” Jack keeps his eyes on the napkin dispensers he’s refilling.

“I’m saying he was _flirting_ with you, my dear sweet clueless bro, and unless my eyes deceive me, you were picking up what he was putting down.”

“I seriously doubt he was flirting with me,” Jack protests, feeling the heat rise to his face. “He’s probably just friendly.”

“As a friendly person, I acknowledge that possibility,” Shitty concedes. “Still, though, I don’t know, he came back here just to see you…”

Jack begins upending chairs onto tables, with perhaps more force than is necessary. “First of all, we have no indication that he’s into guys.”

“Jack. My dude. Do we really need to have the ‘queer comes in all shapes and sizes’ convo? Right now? Really? Because just because he’s a big NHL guy does _not_ mean we should assume he’s straight, and you of all people should know that…”

“No, I know,” Jack waves Shitty off before he can get too far into that particular rant. “I know that, you know I know that. I’m just saying. We have no idea of his orientation one way or the other.”

“Fair.”

“Second of all, if he _is_ into guys, he’s probably with that guy Ransom.” Every time Jack starts to get his hopes up about Holster, he thinks about the text exchange he’d glimpsed on Holster’s phone. People don’t usually sign texts to their platonic friends, “XOXO.”

Every Bruins fan (and probably most NHL fans) knows about Adam Birkholtz and Justin Oluransi. They’ve had an almost supernatural compatibility on the ice from their very first outing, but it’s not just the raw talent that’s earned them the attention of fans and the media alike - it’s their wild victory celebrations, their constant hugging, their cheeky banter in press conferences. _Best friends_ was a term that got tossed around, as was _bromance_ , but there’s been plenty of fan speculation that Birkholtz and Oluransi - Holster and Ransom, Jack guesses he should call them, now that they’ve been introduced - are much more than just friends. They even have their own hashtag, _#holsom_ , a play on their nicknames, and the Bruins team store can barely keep those T-shirts in stock. The whole thing is packaged with a salacious are-they-or-aren’t they wink by a fandom-savvy front office.

 _Queerbaiting_ , Shitty has called it in some of his many rants on the topic, pointing out that the team is happy to profit off of a sordid little rumor, but you don’t see anyone in the NHL feeling supported enough to actually come out. _Whether they’re together or not, it’s gross of the front office to do_ , Shitty points out (Lardo, their third housemate, agrees, but usually adds _That said, I ship it like FedEx_ ).

Nobody knows about Jack’s past with Kent Parson - Shitty, who knows Jack is bi and can put two and two together, probably suspects, but nobody knows. Jack knows, though, just like he knows that sometimes rumors don’t start from nothing. Sometimes those rumors are right on the money, sometimes more than anyone could expect.

And now that he knows that Holster and Ransom are _living together?_ On NHL salaries that wouldn’t require either of them to have a roommate, even in the Boston real estate market? Like he said to Shitty, either Holster is straight or he’s in a serious relationship with Justin Oluransi. Jack’s seen Ransom’s GQ spread; he can’t really blame Holster.

“I don’t know,” Shitty is saying, having moved from the cash register to start mopping the floor. “I have a hard time believing that Oluransi would come to a bar with his boyfriend, then fuck off for half an hour while said boyfriend chatted up a hot bartender.” Jack snorts; Shitty swats his ass as he passes him, and continues his train of thought. “That was wingman behavior if ever I’ve seen it, and if you weren’t - and I mean this, from the bottom of my heart - a _truly abysmal_ wingman, you would recognize it.”

“No.” Jack shakes his head. “Holster said they’re supposed to talk to fans. It used to happen to my dad all the time, it would take us forever to leave a restaurant.”

“Well,” says Shitty, “I guess time will tell. Did he mention coming back by here?”

“I don’t know,” Jack mopes. “I guess I’m supposed to...text him? He mentioned hanging out.”

Shitty’s eyes widen. “So he just totally casually and platonically gave you his number? Got it. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool.”

~*~

The next day Holster gets to the gym early, to work off the beer he’d had the night before. It’s not a ton of extra calories, considering how much he eats per day, but he doesn’t want to be bloated on the ice and he especially doesn’t want to have a conversation with team management about his commitment to their nutrition program.

He’s feeling good, still riding the high from seeing Jack, and definitely _not_ obsessively checking his phone, whatever Ransom might say. In fact, he is so determinedly not checking his phone that he doesn’t even look at his email until after the team’s morning group workout. He sees the email from his agent and is so surprised he has to sit down.

“What’s up?” Ransom asks from the next locker over.

“ _Men’s Health_ wants to do an interview,” Holster replies, still looking at his phone.

Derek “Nursey” Nurse, one of the d-men on the second line, reaches over for a fist bump. “That’s awesome, bro, congrats.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Holster tries to feel happy - this is good exposure for him, which the front office encourages - but he just feels...flummoxed.

“You’re gonna do great,” Ransom says, as usual knowing when Holster needs reassurance. “You’re hilarious in interviews, people love that.”

“Yeah, that’s not really my concern, bro,” Holster admits. “Their photo shoots tend to be kind of, um…naked.”

“No kidding, man, that magazine really got me through high school,” Nursey reminisces fondly. _Me too_ , Holster thinks but doesn’t say. If Holster’s bisexuality is an open secret on the team, Nursey’s is more of an accepted fact. Nursey is just so cool about it, casually dropping references to dates with people from all over the gender spectrum, and he gets away with it because he’s cool and charming and everybody likes him (although Holster’s sure that the team’s NHL-mandated anti-harassment seminars haven’t hurt when it comes to a few of the more conservative guys on the team). Holster wishes he could just be that relaxed with himself, but that’s never really been his style.

“I did that shoot for _ESPN Magazine_ last year, it was NBD,” Nursey is saying now. “I was worried I’d feel self-conscious but everyone there was a pro, they know how to make you look good.”

“No offense, Nurse,” Dex, Nursey’s fellow d-man, says from his other side, “but not all of us look like models.”

“Why would I be offended by that?” Nurse asks with faux sweetness, batting his eyelashes at Dex, who throws a towel in his face.

Holster ducks the ensuing wrestling match, but he can’t help think Dex has a point. Nurse has dimples, interesting tattoos, and those startling green eyes that stand out against his dark skin; he’s one of those guys who understands what “product” is and how to use it to make your hair do...things. By contrast, Holster’s all elbows and knees, giant hands, teeth you could see from space. He’s spent years training his body, and he knows how to make it do exactly what he needs it to do on the ice, but he still has a hard time imagining anyone looking at his corpse-pale stomach and ice-chapped knees and thinking _yeah, I’d like to look like that guy._

His self-doubting reverie is interrupted by Nursey, who has Dex in a headlock and is shouting, “Say it! Say you’re beautiful!”

“Nurse - ow, _fuck_ you, man - knock it off!” Dex protests, wriggling like a live trout.

“SAY IT!”

“Gah!” Dex’s face is bright red. “Fine. I’m beautiful.”

“Yes you are.” Nurse tousles Dex’s hair and lets him go, sauntering away. He calls back over his shoulder, “And so are you, Holster! It’s gonna be _magical_!”

“That fucking guy, Christ almighty,” Dex grouses, smoothing his hair down. “Good-looking people always think everything is so easy.”

Holster makes a noncommittal grunt. He doesn’t want to get involved in Dex and Nursey’s eternal bickering. He also doesn’t want to make Dex uncomfortable, which is why he doesn’t mention Dex’s devoted Twitter fanbase, all of whom seem pretty eager to learn just exactly where all of Dex’s freckles are. There are some things one just doesn’t bring up, even in a locker room.

He dresses quickly, his mind still on the interview. _I should probably do it_ , he thinks. _How bad could it be?_

Holster doesn’t get another chance to look at his phone until they break for lunch, but when he does, there’s a text from a number he doesn’t recognize.

_Hi, it’s Jack. I’m probably going to watch some more Cheers with my housemates this weekend. Shitty says you should come._

He just stares at the text for a moment, then starts slapping Ransom on the shoulder. “Dude. _Dude._ ”

“Ow! Quit it, what do you want?”

They’re surrounded by their teammates, so Holster just surreptitiously shows him the text.

“ _Oh shit!_ ” Ransom whisper-yells.

“Shhhh!” Holster glances around frantically, but nobody’s paying attention. Everyone’s used to Ransom and Holster, by now. Still, though. “Keep your voice down, bro!”

 _“Netflix and chill!_ ” Ransom’s whispering so excitedly, he’s spitting a little. “This is a _Netflix and chill_ situation!”

“No, no it’s not, it says right there that that guy Shitty is gonna be there. This is a group hang.” Holster’s palms are sweaty.

“Yeah, at his _house!_ Dude.” Ransom holds up his hand for a high-five. “This has Netflix and chill written all over it. Also, I guess that guy’s name really is Shitty. Gonna need you to get the story on that one.”

“Wait, you’re not coming? I’m gonna need a wingman.” Holster’s gut is vacillating rapidly from excitement to panic.

“No way, I am not going to hang out in the basement of some random house while you two bang it out upstairs.” Ransom returns to his lunch. “You’re just going to have to go on a date without bringing a friend, like an adult human man would do.”

“It’s not a date,” Holster mutters into his vegetables. _Maybe it’s a date_ , his traitorous brain whispers. _Maybe not_ , he tells it sternly. _Ugh, how does anyone do anything._

~*~

“RISE AND SHINE, MOTHERFUCKERS!” Shitty yells from the top of the stairs.

Jack and Lardo exchange a look over their grilled cheese sandwiches. “Babe, it’s afternoon,” Lardo calls up the stairs. “Do you want grilled cheese?”

Shitty marches into the kitchen, bathrobe trailing behind him like a cape. “Why yes I do want grilled cheese, thank you. Jack, my stalwart bro from the north, how are you this fine morning?” He accepts the bread and margarine from Lardo with a wink.

“I’m good,” Jack says around a mouthful of sandwich, “and once again, it’s afternoon.”

“Counterpoint: I don’t care,” Shitty replies. “For the first time in weeks I don’t have a Saturday morning study group; I don’t have to work until nine in the PM; and a man I have watched beat the shit out of people on TV, many times, is coming to my house to woo my bestest of bros and watch a show that aired before any of us were born. Not too shabby a day for B.S. Knight, Soon-to-be-Esquire.”

“I didn’t say _woo_ ,” Jack protests. “He’s just coming over to watch TV.”

Lardo’s eyebrows are raised so high, it’s like they’re about to climb off of her head. “Does _he_ know that?”

“Um...yes? I said we were going to be hanging out, and he could come by if he wanted to.”

Lardo nods. “OK, OK, got it, super casual, super caszh.”

“On a scale of 1 to hockey, how much can we talk to him about hockey?” Shitty asks.

“Let’s keep it at, like, a 6,” Lardo suggests. “More than Jack, less than Jack’s dad.”

“That’s a good rubric,” Jack agrees.

After lunch, Jack and Lardo have a protracted argument with Shitty over whether or not he has to put on actual pants (“Is this not the modern world? In the modern world, should a man not be allowed to go pantsless in his own house?”), and Jack cleans up the dishes.

He’s feeling weirdly nervous about seeing Holster. He gets his share of phone numbers scribbled on bar napkins, but it’s been awhile since he was even really attracted to somebody, let alone into them enough to actually seek them out.

Of course, when he finally meets someone he’s kind of into, they’re in the NHL. Of fucking course, the first person he’s liked in ages comes from the exact world Jack grew up in, the world he’s spent the last several years trying to leave behind. When he first saw the dawning recognition in Holster’s eyes, Jack was sure his budding attraction to Holster was about to die on the vine; he was ready for the barrage of questions, maybe even a terrible, awkward request for a selfie. Instead, Holster was unexpectedly decent about the whole thing.

Jack’s spent years convinced that any adult who was into hockey (the kids on his team don’t count; they’re too young to have even heard of his dad, anyway) was only interested in him for his famous name, but Holster seems different. Jack’s seen how enthusiastic Holster can get about things he’s excited about; he wonders, a little self-consciously, what it would be like to have someone be that enthusiastic about _him_ \- not his family or his past or how he plays hockey, but him, Jack Zimmermann.

It wouldn’t hurt if that person was also tall and blond, with a dazzling smile and eyes you could drown in (even when they weren’t dilated to the size of saucers). Jack’s never been with a guy who was bigger than he was; there aren’t really that many of them around, but Holster’s got 3 inches and 30 pounds on him, easily. He could probably pick Jack up, if he wanted to - and imagining that sends Jack’s thoughts in a variety of directions, none of which are conducive to having a chill hangout with a probably-platonic recent acquaintance.

 _So let’s review,_ he tells himself. _1.) Probably not into dudes. 2.) If he is into dudes, probably dating that guy Ransom. 3.) Either way, he is an NHL player, and therefore the worst possible person for you to get involved with._

Still, the excitement leaps up his throat when he hears the car pull up outside. He looks out the window and Holster’s standing there like he’s in a community theatre production of Romeo and Juliet: hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at the house, vulnerability in the lines of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. Jack brings a hand to his mouth, and finds that he’s smiling.

When Jack ushers Holster into the living room, Shitty and Lardo are already in there, draped over various pieces of furniture in attitudes of exaggerated nonchalance.

“This is Lardo,” Jack says, gesturing toward her.

She glances briefly up from her phone. “Hey, what’s up.”

“...And you met Shitty the other night,” Jack feels ridiculously formal.

“Sure, hi,” says Holster, folding himself up to sit on the couch. He holds out the plastic grocery-store container he’s carrying. “I brought a veggie tray. I know it’s not the most exciting snack, but I wanted to bring something, and I’m not really supposed to eat chips, so…”

“Veggies are cool, thanks, man,” Shitty says, taking the tray from him and setting it on the coffee table. “Oh sweet, sugar snap peas.” Lardo continues staring at her phone, but snaps her fingers rapidly for Shitty to hand her some peas.

Jack suddenly realizes that Lardo and Shitty have strategically placed themselves on the furniture such that the only remaining seat is next to Holster on the couch. He’s not sure whether to be grateful or annoyed, but he can’t very well keep standing there all day. He settles into the couch between Lardo and Holster, sitting bolt upright and trying to ignore the part of his brain that is cataloguing the way Holster smells.

There’s a terrible silence. Holster is sitting right next to him, Jack can actually feel his body heat, and now he feels like he can’t turn to look at Holster, because then he’d be _right there_ , and it might be weird, so he just stares straight ahead like some kind of horrifying mannequin.

“So, uh…is your name really Shitty?” Holster ventures.

Shitty laughs, and Jack can feel Holster relax slightly next to him. He tries to do the same. “No, sadly,” Shitty admits. “People at school started calling me Shitty, and it just kind of stuck.”

“So what’s your actual name?”

Shitty gives him a twinkle. “Oh ho ho, _what indeed_.”

“Are we going to watch this show, or what?” Lardo pipes up. “Somebody get the lights.”

As it happens, “watching _Cheers_ with Shitty and Lardo” turns out to be the perfect litmus test for whether or not someone’s going to be compatible with Jack, because Shitty has a lot to say about the show’s more retrograde themes, and _must be able to hang with Shitty even when he’s ranting about something_ is a top requirement for dating Jack.

“Sure, Sam is charming, but he’s like, a paragon of toxic masculinity,” Shitty points out, after Sam seduces, then sneaks out on, Diane’s college friend.

“Absolutely,” Holster acknowledges. “But...see, this is hard, because I don’t want to give away the whole show. But like...I think the key to watching _Cheers_ is that yeah, Sam is sexy, he’s a ladies’ man, but I think the thesis of the show is that that isn’t a particularly healthy way to be. A lot of the gender politics haven’t aged well in the last 35 years, but Sam is punished for his behavior as often as he’s rewarded, and...well, you should watch the show. But I don’t think that the show presents his behavior as coming from a place of pure confidence, or being like, the way a person should be, especially in later seasons.”

Mollified, Shitty starts the next episode. Jack tries to keep his mind on the plot, but it’s hard to focus. Holster just keeps surprising him, first with his decidedly chill reaction to Jack’s notoriety, now for his thoughtful responses to Shitty’s commentary on the show. It’s especially impressive because Jack knows how much Holster loves _Cheers._ A lot of people, faced with a critique of a beloved show, would tell Shitty he’s being too sensitive, that it’s just a show - or worse, would refuse to acknowledge the problematic areas in the first place.

Jack has dealt with over-defensive, over-competitive jocks in every area of his life, his whole life. The fact that Holster can admit the faults in something he loves, without turning into a pissing contest, speaks volumes to him. He can feel himself blushing, for some reason, and is glad the lights are dimmed.

“You know,” Shitty says halfway into the next episode, “when I saw this show as a kid, I don’t think I registered just how hot Ted Danson is in this. Like, he is sexy as hell, and I just had no idea.”

“I did,” Holster and Lardo say in unison. Lardo laughs and holds out a hand for Holster to fistbump. Jack is so startled by Holster’s laid-back admission that he turns to look at him for the first time since they both sat down; Holster catches his eye and gives him an encouraging smile, then turns back to the TV.

_So OK, definitely into dudes, then. Could still be dating that guy Ransom, who knows? Still in the NHL, but cool about it._

Onscreen, Sam and Diane are bickering again. Slowly, Jack allows himself to fully relax back into the couch. He’s been holding his knees stiffly together in front of him to avoid accidentally touching Holster; now he stretches his legs out, with what he feels like is incredibly exaggerated casualness, and lets his knee sag sideways until it comes to rest against Holster’s. It’s a small touch, but next to him, Holster draws in a short, shallow breath, exhaling slowly. They sit in silence as the episode ends and a new one starts.

Lardo and Shitty are passing a joint back and forth; Lardo offers it to Holster, who politely declines, citing league drug testing. His knee is still resting against Jack’s. Holster keeps his eyes on the TV, where Norm is bemoaning his lack of career prospects, but he lets his hand drift down to rest between his and Jack’s thighs; Jack is electrified to feel Holster’s pinky finger caress his leg. Jack concentrates on keeping his breathing slow and even as Holster slides his hand onto Jack’s thigh.

Holster darts him an uncertain glance, eyebrows raised, as if to ask _is this OK?_ Jack gives him a small smile in return. He’s not brave enough to actually hold Holster’s hand, but he spends the rest of the episode gazing at the TV with unseeing eyes, lost in the sensation of Holster’s thumb gently tracing circles against his thigh.

Suddenly, Lardo pops up off the couch like a jack-in-the box. Jack and Holster both jump, Holster pulling his hand back from Jack’s leg like he’s been scalded. “I need food,” she proclaims. “Shitty, do you want to come with me to get some food?”

“Let’s just order pizza,” Shitty yawns. “I’m so comfy.”

“Shitty.” Lardo is giving him an exceptionally pleasant smile, which Jack recognizes as her special _I will murder you_ face. “Come with me to get food. There can be tacos,” she cajoles him.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Birkholtz, good hanging out, man, come by anytime.”

Holster returns Shitty’s fist bump, flashing his dazzling white teeth. “Thanks," he says. Jack can feel him shaking with suppressed laughter next to him on the couch.

They sit in silence together, listening to Lardo and Shitty as they putter around grabbing shoes and coats and hats and finally, mercifully leave the house. The quiet between them is comfortable enough, until the door shuts behind Lardo and Shitty, and suddenly the house seems too silent. Jack feels the awkwardness rise in his chest again, threatening to overpower the little unfurling coil of desire that’s been living there.

Holster turns to look at him. “So,” he says.

Jack forces himself to meet his eyes, and is surprised to see that they’re crinkled up at the corners with amusement. Jack finds himself smiling in response. “So,” he echoes back, and they both laugh, a little _well-this-is-awkward_ chuckle that does a lot to dispel the awkwardness just by acknowledging it.

 _There is a boy on my couch with blue eyes and a sweet smile, he thinks, and his hands are enormous but I like the way he touches me, and he’s a hockey player, but hell, I love hockey. Maybe this could be OK._ When Holster reaches out and touches his face, Jack doesn’t pull away from the touch.

Holster swallows, brushing a thumb along Jack’s cheek. “So, I really want to kiss you now,” he murmurs.

Jack realizes he’s staring at Holster’s lips, and looks up into his eyes once more. “OK,” he says softly, and then Holster’s mouth is on his.

It’s been a while since Jack kissed anyone, and even longer since he kissed anyone he really liked; he’s forgotten what a big difference really liking someone can make. Holster kisses him again and again, light, sweet, fleeting kisses that leave Jack chasing his mouth for more. One giant hand is still softly cupping Jack’s face; Holster slides the other hand back up his thigh, and Jack’s heart kicks into high gear. He pulls Holster closer. Holster makes a soft sound and kisses him more deeply, the first touch of his tongue against Jack’s.

Jack’s so keyed up, he’s not sure if he wants to run for the hills, or if he wants to drag Holster upstairs to his bedroom. He lets Holster bear him back down onto the couch, their legs tangling together at the end of a couch that’s too short for either of them to stretch out on. Holster’s leg ends up pressed between Jack’s thighs, and Jack finds himself lifting his hips to increase the contact between them.

As though it’s been alerted by the sensation of Jack having too much fun, a little thread of anxiety rises up and starts to drift through his head. _You don’t even know him,_ it whispers. _This is happening really fast._ He tries to ignore it and stay in the moment. He runs his hands across Holster’s wide shoulders, down his massive biceps. _Fuck, he’s so hot, I don’t care, I don’t care_ , he tells himself, and almost believes it. He brings one hand up to stroke through the thick blond hair at the base of Holster’s skull.

Groaning, Holster surges forward, sucking Jack’s lower lip between his teeth. It’s as though the contact completes some kind of circuit between Jack’s mouth and his groin, an open current of desire running through him. He gasps into Holster’s mouth; Holster groans again, in response, and bends his head to kiss a line down Jack’s throat.

Jack’s breath is coming hard and fast, he feels like he’s on fire, but without the distraction of kissing Holster, his brain is starting to go into overdrive. Holster is holding himself up on one arm, trying not to lean his full weight on Jack’s chest, but Jack still feels a sudden spike of claustrophobia. _He knows who you are,_ anxiety whispers. _He could seriously fuck up your life, if he wanted to._ He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus on Holster’s mouth pressing kisses under the corner of his jaw. _He’s not going to do that, that would hurt him way more than it would hurt me, anyway._ Holster is pushing at the hem of Jack’s t-shirt, sliding his hand up underneath it. The contact of Holster’s hand with his bare skin makes Jack jump, and the whimper that falls from his mouth has a hint of protest in it.

Holster’s hand stills on Jack’s stomach. He lifts his head again to peer down into Jack’s face. “You OK?”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs, mentally kicking himself, but kind of relieved, too. “Sorry. This is just...faster than I like to go.”

 _Which is ridiculous, you’re a grown man, he’s going to think you’re some kind of weird prude,_ anxiety is now whispering, blithely oblivious to the fact that it just changed sides.

But Holster just says “OK, that’s cool,” and removes his hand from Jack’s shirt; he lifts himself off of Jack and sits up, a little red-faced, running a hand through his hair. He takes a deep, unsteady breath.

Jack sits up beside him, still feeling absurd for having stopped things. “Sorry,” he says again, willing his heart to slow down. “I just…” he gestures helplessly.

“You like to take things slow,” Holster suggests. “That’s cool.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say. His whole life, he’s had trouble letting people in; his mind is always nervously scanning for their unspoken expectations, their hidden disappointment in him. It’s hard for him to trust people, and it’s only gotten harder since he went from crown prince to cautionary tale in the hockey world. Holster is earnest, and sweet, and a surprisingly good kisser, but he’s also in the NHL, which means there’s all this _stuff_ attached to him, stuff Jack’s spent a lot of time getting away from.

“Hey,” Holster murmurs, peering at him with a troubled look. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong.”

“No,” Jack hastens to say. “No, it’s...you were...it’s...it’s me.”

“I had a really nice time with you today.” Jack tries not to scoff in his face. _Yeah, right._ “And…” Holster’s eyebrows draw up with that same sweetly questioning look. “...I’d like to see you again, if...if you’d be into that.”

“Really?” Jack blurts out.

“Yeah. Yeah, really.” Holster laughs. He slips a hand into Jack’s. “I’m OK with taking things slow.”

“OK,” Jack whispers, looking down at their entwined fingers.

Holster gives Jack’s hand a squeeze, then lets it go; he stands up, stretching hugely. “I should probably head out, I gotta go to Pittsburgh tomorrow.”

Jack stands up to walk him out, distracted all over again by the novelty of looking _up_ into Holster’s face. Holster grins down at him, goofily - then the grin seems to melt off his face, and he looks suddenly uncertain.

“Um, Jack,” he mumbles. His cheeks are flooding with color. “I, um, this is awkward, but uh, I’m...not out. In the NHL.”

“I figured.” This is, at least, one area where Jack knows the drill.

“So um...if you could not, you know...mention this to anyone, that would be good.” Holster stares at him miserably. “I’m sorry, I should have said something earlier.”

“I get it.” He does, probably better than Holster even realizes; even if he were inclined to be mad or offended, Holster’s hangdog expression is charming enough to make him smile.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still want to, like, see you again and all.” A trace of Holster’s grin is re-emerging. “I just, like, if I see you in public, like at the bar, I’m not going to be able to…”

Feeling brave, Jack puts a hand on Holster’s shoulder. “I understand. Really, I do. I know a thing or two about being queer and playing hockey, remember?”

“OK.” The goofy grin is back in full effect now. _Câlisse, he’s cute._

When they reach the front door, Holster turns to him and asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes.”

It’s just a quick press of Holster’s lips to his, but Jack can still feel the kiss all the way down to his toes - and the look Holster gives him as he pulls away is positively filthy. “I’ll call you,” Holster says. “I’m pretty busy the next few days, but I’ll definitely call you.”

Jack wanders back into the house, feeling unmoored, wondering if he just completely blew it with Holster or if Holster will, in fact, call him again. His phone buzzes with a text from Lardo.

_Is it safe to come back to the house yet? Shitty’s getting cold._

~*~

The Bruins lose in Pittsburgh.

Ransom gets checked _hard_ into the boards, and there’s a terrible moment where it looks like he’s seriously injured his shoulder; Holster’s halfway to taking the other guy’s head off before they’re both sent to the box. He spends the rest of the game fuming on the bench while Ransom goes to get his shoulder checked out.

Dex and Nursey put in a valiant effort, but they’ve been arguing a lot, and Holster can see that they’re not quite connecting out on the ice, which makes him even angrier. The Penguins get a couple of plays by them that (Holster tells himself) never would have gotten past him and Ransom, and they’re down 2-0 before anyone can start to stem the tide. Marty gets a goal in the third period, but it’s not enough.

He knows he should say something encouraging to Dex and Nurse - they’re both only a year or two into their careers, and he’s supposed to be like a mentor figure to them. But seeing them look up at him from the bench, dripping with sweat, exhausted, miserable, he can’t find anything encouraging to say - _you should have played better_ isn’t exactly constructive feedback - so he just storms past them into the locker room.

“Hey,” Coach Murray grabs him as he stomps toward his locker. “Simmer down, Birkholtz. I’ve got enough problems without you acting like a horse’s ass.”

Holster mutters an apology, but he doesn’t really start to calm down until they’re back at the hotel. He and Ransom huddle together on his bed, Ransom with a giant ice pack taped to his shoulder, watching New Girl on Holster’s iPad. Just being in Ransom’s presence is calming - Ransom’s way less mad about the check than Holster is, for one thing, and bats his eyes while proclaiming Holster “my knight in shining armor” - and leaning against his solid, familiar weight slowly leaches the anger and frustration out of Holster.

He forgets to text Jack.

Everyone is sore and moody on the plane the next day. Dex and Nurse have been sniping at each other all morning - Nurse needs to turn the music down in his headphones, Dex’s cologne smells like ass, the same trip they’re always running on each other - and by the time they’re in the air, the squabbling’s getting loud enough to attract some looks from their teammates.

Holster’s feeling a little guilty about not being more supportive after last night’s loss, so he steps up and separates them, settling in next to Nursey and sending Dex back to sit next to a sound-asleep Ransom.

“Thanks, man. I love Dex, but I just wish he could _chiillllll._ Just like, give it a rest, for like, one second, you know?” Nursey says, not without a hint of sheepishness.

“I do know,” Holster says. “But - you’re an only child, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well - take it from someone with two younger siblings: the worst possible way to get someone to chill is to tell them to chill.”

Nursey stares out the window. “Yeah. I guess.”

Holster reads a bit of his book, giving Nursey an opportunity to digest his Mr. Feeny-style wisdom and generally cool off. After a few minutes, Nursey stops staring out the window and starts rooting in his bag for a magazine.

“Oh hey, did you decide whether or not to do the _Men’s Health_ thing?” Nursey has pulled out the latest issue of the magazine in question. Conor McGregor is on the cover, posing with his fists up and not wearing any kind of shirt at all.

Holster regards it with a queasy feeling. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna do it. I’ve kind of...avoided?...doing this kind of magazine in the past, just because I, you know…” he gestures at the cover.

“When was the last time you actually read this magazine?” Nursey asks. “Look, I know their covers are pretty...thirst-trappy, but look.” He pages through the magazine. “Plenty of dudes in here with their clothes on. They’re not gonna make you get more naked than you’re comfortable with. Look, here’s an interview with Russell Westbrook - totally clothed, and looking very stylish, I might add.”

“It’s gonna be like one page, toward the back,” Holster mutters.

“Exactly.” Nursey settles back in his seat, popping his earbuds back in. “No sweat.”

When they get home, he texts Jack, _This just in: Pittsburgh sucks._ There’s no response before he goes to bed, but when he checks his phone in the morning, Jack has responded with _:-(_.

“Not the frowny face emoji,” he tells Ransom over breakfast, “the actual frowny face _emoticon_. Colon, dash, parenthesis.”

“Old school.” Ransom’s reply is muffled by a mouthful of toast.

“I guess.” Holster looks at the text again, as though there might be more to it that he’s just missed somehow. “But like, what does that _mean_?”

“I don’t know, dude. Maybe he hates Pittsburgh. Maybe he loves Pittsburgh, and is sad you dissed it. Maybe he’s like, ‘Your hockey team just lost a game but I feel weird texting you about it.’”

“Maybe. Should I text him back? What should I say?”

“This is a puzzler, bro, I’m gonna need to wake up more before I can offer advice,” Ransom admits, handing him a banana. “Talk to me again after conditioning.”

Ransom is as good as his word, and after their morning workout he plops down next to Holster with a Gatorade and some advice. “Here’s the deal: it doesn’t matter,” he declares. “You texted him, he texted you back. If he hadn’t texted you back, this would be a whole other ball game - but he did, even if it was…”

“Mystifying,” Holster suggests.

“I was gonna say _brief_ , but yeah, that too. So now it’s your turn to say something.”

Holster eyes his phone as though it might bite him. “What do I say?”

“Whatever you want, man! What do you want to say?”

“How about…” Holster speaks the words out loud as he types. “ _When can I see you again?_ ”

Ransom nods. “That’s good! Makes your intentions clear from the get-go. A suggestion, though, if I may?”

“Please.”

“Instead of asking an open-ended question, why not suggest a time to meet up? Otherwise you’re gonna send that, then he’s gonna be like ‘I don’t know, whenever,’ and you’re gonna be like ‘well what do you want to do,’ and it’ll be a whole back-and-forth. Eliminate the middleman, pass the savings on to you, and suggest a date.”

Holster stares at him in admiration. “That’s an excellent point, bro. You are, like, the master at this.”

Ransom rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m the master of dating, which is why I’m coming home to _you_ every night.”

“Hey.” Holster drapes his arms around his friend. “You could do a lot worse than Adam Birkholtz.”

“That I could, bro,” Ransom chuckles, squeezing him back. “That I could.”

In the end, Holster ends up texting Jack, _I have a game tonight, but could come by afterward, if you’d be around?_

Jack texts back, _I have to work tonight._

Holster’s heart sinks. This is starting to look more and more like the brushoff, and he’s going to push it if what Jack wants is -

His phone buzzes with another text. _You could come by the bar, if you want._

Success! A return to the place it all began. No chance to be alone together, which sucks, but Jack wanted to take it slow, so maybe that’s a good thing?

The thought of seeing Jack again, even with a bar between them, buoys his spirits for the rest of the day, and he carries that good feeling onto the ice. Unlike Sunday night, when nothing seemed like it was coming together, tonight’s one of those nights where everything just clicks. He and Ransom get in that headspace where they can practically hear each other’s thoughts; Snowy goes into Extra Scary Goalie Mode; Marty and Poots are moving the puck around so smoothly it seems to disappear and reappear directly in front of the opposing goal. The Predators don’t even stand a chance.

The energy in the locker room post-game is rowdy and triumphant; Ransom and Holster perform their traditional victory dance, which involves a lot of pointing and hip gyrations, to whoops and hollers from their teammates. Holster takes some time getting dressed, even putting on some cologne, which he usually doesn’t bother with after a game.

Ransom eyes him with a grin. “Sweet, are we going out tonight?”

“I was thinking I’d head over to George’s,” he replies, hoping Ransom will take the hint and won’t tag along.

Unfortunately, Nursey overhears their conversation. “Oh, George’s, in the South End? I’ve been there, it’s a chill spot. I’d be down to head there.”

“Where we going?” Poots calls over, and Nursey tells him before Holster can say anything, and suddenly they’ve got a whole group going.

 _Some of the guys from the team are coming_ , Holster texts Jack from the back of the Lyft. _I hope that’s OK._ He has no idea if Jack even checks his phone while he’s working.

 _This is going to be OK, right?_ he asks himself, wiping his suddenly-sweaty palms on his jeans. He remembers Jack’s closed-off look when Holster realized who he was, and isn’t so sure. Okay, so he and Ransom had recognized Jack right away, but that’s just because they’re giant hockey nerds. It’s not like Jack’s _famous_. The only way anyone would recognize Jack is if they were the kind of person who paid close attention to junior hockey, or if they fanatically followed coverage of the NHL draft, and even then, only if they’d been doing so during the few years Jack was playing at that level.

He looks around the SUV filled with professional hockey players of his approximate age and groans inwardly. I may be totally boned here, he thinks, and not in a good way.

~*~

Tuesday nights at the bar are kind of a pain, as far as Jack’s concerned. To bring in some additional business on what would otherwise be a slow night, they run a “Taco Tuesday” promotion, which means lots of running back and forth to the kitchen for whoever’s serving tables, and lots of vacuuming up little shreds of cheese and lettuce and crumbs of ground beef for whoever’s closing up.

Taco Tuesday is, however, an excellent outlet for Chowder, who is a sweet enough kid but has a tendency to talk Jack’s ear off if they’re both working on a slow night. Running tacos and beers out to the tables keeps Chowder busy, and leaves Jack to tend bar in relative peace.

He keeps glancing up every time someone comes in the door, hoping it’s Holster, which is ridiculous - he’s got the Bruins game on in the background, and it’s not like Holster’s going to walk in the door while he’s simultaneously playing hockey on the bar TV.

At least the game is going well. Jack had watched the Penguins game at home with Lardo, feeling a little self-conscious the first time Holster skated out - _I’ve kissed him, he’s been here in this house._ He had cringed through the whole game, knowing Holster must be on the bench doing the same.

Then there was that fight. Holster had been completely unhinged out there, dropping his gloves and sailing in like he was out for blood. Jack remembers that kind of anger, especially when a teammate is injured; it’s one of the top things he has to counsel the kids he coaches about. _Remember that the rest of the team is counting on you, too. You can’t win the game from the penalty box._

He understands, but he can’t help be reminded of some of his reservations about Holster’s relationship with Justin Oluransi. Had Holster’s actions been those of a hotheaded player defending his teammate? Or that of an outraged lover protecting his boyfriend? Jack keeps replaying Holster’s stammered request that he not mention their kiss to anyone in his head. At the time, he’d thought Holster was just worried about being outed - a legitimate enough concern, considering his career. The more Jack thinks about it, though, the more he thinks that while Holster’s request was something someone worried about being outed might do, it was also something that someone worried about being caught cheating on their partner would do.

Still, though, Holster’s coming here tonight, just to see Jack, even though it’s going to be super late by the time he gets here, and Holster should probably be getting a good night’s sleep instead. He’s going to come hang out in this bar that reeks of beer and cheap tacos, and talk to Jack about his day, and Jack’s going to listen and watch Holster’s blue eyes crinkle up when he smiles. Jack’s not above indulging in a small fantasy that this could be a regular thing - closing up the bar while his sexy NHL player boyfriend perches on a barstool, a pint glass cradled in one large, calloused palm.

When Holster does finally stride through the door, blond hair still shower-damp under his backwards cap, Jack’s stomach gives a fluttery little thrill. That thrill turns to something colder when he sees Ransom just a step behind, and suddenly Jack’s frozen behind the bar, sick with dread, as half a dozen of Holster’s teammates filter in behind them.

Holster herds the group toward a corner booth, mercifully as far from the bar as possible. Jack ducks his head, pretending to scrub at a spot on the perfectly-clean bar and hoping none of these men give him so much as a second look. His pulse is getting jittery.

“Oh. My. GOD.” Chowder has appeared at his elbow as if from nowhere. “Do you know who those guys _are_?”

“Yeah,” Jack murmurs, still scrubbing away at that make-believe spot.

“Do you...should I go over there?” Chowder’s eyes are wide and shining at the prospect.

In spite of his rising tension, Jack has to laugh at him. “Yes, I think you should. Gonna be hard to take their order from over here.” He gives Chowder his best hockey-coach now-get-out-there clap on the back. Chowder straightens his shoulders and marches over to the table of hockey stars, who are laughing and chirping each other in loud voices.

With Chowder safely dispatched, Jack crouches down behind the bar for a moment, as though to check the soda guns. He runs a hand through his hair and does a quick deep breathing exercise. _You can do this. Nobody is paying attention to you. It’s going to be fine. Just do your job, and it will be fine._

When he straightens up again, Holster is standing at the bar.

“Hey,” Holster smiles, but his eyes are worried.

“Hey,” Jack manages.

“I take it you didn’t get my text.”

Jack shakes his head, feeling like he’s been wrapped in cotton. “I don’t check it when I’m at work.”

“Listen -” Holster leans across the bar, his voice low and urgent. “I’m sorry about this. I mentioned to Ransom I was coming here, and some of the other guys overheard, and it just…” he gestures helplessly.

“It’s fine,” Jack says. It’s not, of course, but there’s nothing to be done about it now, and he can’t risk having an emotional conversation with Holster in this bar full of people who probably grew up with his dad’s posters on their bedroom walls.

Holster gives him another worried smile. “I’m...I’m happy to see you,” he ventures. He reaches out as though he’s going to touch Jack’s hand, but pulls back with a guilty glance at the corner booth.

Jack turns away. “You should go back to your team, they’re going to wonder why you’re over here talking to me.”

“Jack, I really am sorry about this.”

Jack knows he is, just like a part of him understands how Holster might have wound up with more company on his visit to Jack than he bargained for. None of that matters at this moment, though, because his hands are starting to shake and he needs Holster to _go away_ , right now, before Jack has a full-on panic attack in the middle of the bar. He manages a tight smile. “Like I said, it’s fine.”

Holster looks troubled, but wanders back over to the booth, where he’s greeted with jubilant shouts and slaps on the back.

Chowder rushes up with everyone’s drink orders, and Jack is able to shut his mind off for the next few minutes in the simple rituals of mixing, pouring, stirring. The Bruins seem happy enough to stay in their corner, tossing back drinks, and Jack is starting to think he might have been overreacting.

He keeps sneaking glances over at them, watching how Holster is with his teammates. Jack has spent enough time around hockey teams at various levels to see that Holster has a natural rapport with most of them; they seem to genuinely like him. Or, at the very least, they seem to like Holster and Ransom - because it’s impossible to see them as anything else but a unit. The two have an easy closeness that Jack can see even from across the bar. They finish each other’s sentences; they complete each other’s movie references. They’re constantly touching.

At one point, Jack looks over to see Ransom staring back at him with a speculative look. _I kissed your boyfriend,_ he thinks. _Sorry._

So it’s not great, but it could be worse. The initial spike of anxiety has left him feeling drained, but there are plenty of busy little tasks he can do behind the bar, tasks he knows so well that he just shut his brain off and perform them by rote. Everything is going to be very clean and well-stocked by the end of the night; whoever opens tomorrow is going to be psyched that Jack’s done so much of their work for them.

“Hey,” a voice slurs from behind him. “Hey, I know you.”

Jack slowly turns to see a gigantic man leaning against the bar. He smiles, showing a couple of missing teeth, and Jack recognizes him as the Bruins’ goalie, Snow.

“Oh?” Jack asks, in his blandest possible voice, wishing that he hadn’t already been on the receiving end of quite so many _you have to talk to the customers_ lectures from the bar’s owner.

“Yeah!” Snow nods several times, then squints at him with a serious expression that Jack, at this point in his bartending career, has no trouble spotting as the look of a man who is trying to act less drunk than he really is.

“I don’t think so.” Jack turns away.

“No, yeah I do!” Snow insists. “As soon as I saw you, I was like, I know that guy. I’ve been sittin’ there all night tryin’ to figure it out. You’re Bad Bob Zimmermann’s kid, right? Jason?”

“It’s Jack,” he sighs, turning back toward Snow. No point in denying it now, not if he wants to avoid a scene. “And yeah, that’s me.”

“Ho-leeee shit, dude! I played against you my first year in the Q! You were a fucking _beast!_ What the hell happened to you, man?”

Behind the bar, Jack clenches his hands into fists. _I am safe_ , he tells himself. _I am safe, I am calm, I am alert._ He tries to ignore the sparks dancing at the edges of his vision. Out loud, he says, “Oh, you know.”

“I was so sure you were gonna go first in the draft that year. I lost money on you, dude!”

“Euh...sorry?” The floor is apparently not going to cooperate and swallow Jack whole.

“So what happened? You OD’d on something, right?” Snow leans in with an air of avid curiosity. “Was it coke? I always thought it was coke. You see that so much these days, kids in the Q thinkin’ they’re rock stars.” _It was anti-anxiety medication, actually, and if there’s one thing I never thought I was, it’s a rock star,_ Jack thinks, but he knows that saying so would be the opposite of helpful right now.

“Hey Poots!” Snow calls over his shoulder, toward the booth. Jack can see Holster sit up suddenly, looking over at them with some alarm. “You’ll never guess who this guy is!”

“Excuse me,” Jack mutters. He strides back toward the kitchen, not even bothering to check in with Chowder before he leaves. As soon as the door swings shut behind him, he’s leaning against the wall, pushing back against it to feel it push back, solid and real, gasping in air. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. _You’re OK, you’re OK, you’re OK._ He forces himself to make each breath a little deeper, hold it a little longer, exhale a little slower, and gradually he can feel his pulse start to slow.

He removes his hands from his eyes and realizes that Tater, the gigantic Russian cook, is staring at him. “You OK Zimmboni?” he asks around the toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, I just...I’m not feeling well. I’m going to see if Shitty can come cover the rest of my shift.”

“OK. Chowder says there are big hockey guys out there, yeah?”

Jack suddenly feels like he might cry, which he would prefer not to do in front of a giant tattooed Russian dude who’s covered in taco grease. He manages a nod.

Tater’s face breaks into a sly grin. “You think they’ll sign autograph for me? Or will they be too scared, because Russians so good hockey players?”

“I...I’m sure they will, Tater. I’m gonna call Shitty.” Jack knows Shitty won’t be in bed yet, but he’s probably studying. Jack doesn’t want to interrupt Shitty’s night off, but he can’t go back out there.

“Yoooo,” Shitty answers the phone.

“Hey.”

“Jack? You all right?”

“Yeah, um…” his hand is shaking so badly he can barely hold the phone up to his ear.

“Hey, bro,” Shitty’s voice is gentle. “It’s OK. Just breathe. What’s the matter?”

Jack is not crying, he’s not going to cry. “I’m sorry, just...Holster is here, and he brought a bunch of guys from his team, and…”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t think he meant to, he just...I don’t know,” Jack says, miserable.

“Do you want me to come finish your shift?”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s your night off.”

“Don’t even worry about it, bro, I’ve been studying for like ten hours, I could use a break. Plus, I always relish a chance to converse with the ebullient Christopher Chow. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Thanks, Shitty.”

~*~

Holster’s watching the door to the kitchen like a hawk, but Jack doesn’t re-emerge. He’s not even listening to whatever tale Nursey’s regaling the group with.

Their server, a skinny Asian kid with braces, comes by with a tray full of drinks. “Hey, sorry about the wait, guys, our bartender just went home sick.”

 _Sick?_ Holster’s stomach drops. He’d seen the way the color had washed out of Jack’s face when Snowy started running his mouth off. He should have stopped Snowy before he could say anything rude, but Holster hadn’t even realized he was over there talking to Jack until he’d yelled _You’ll never guess who this guy is._

Holster knows that Jack doesn’t like to talk about his past - it’s been clear from how prickly Jack’s gotten the few times it’s come up. _I shouldn’t have come here, I should have made those guys go somewhere else._ Now Snowy not only knows who Jack is, he knows where he works - he could, theoretically, come in here and pester Jack about his breakdown and his famous father whenever he wants. Holster has thoroughly blown up Jack’s spot, all because he couldn’t fucking use his words and tell his dumbass teammates to go somewhere else to drink tonight.

He’s halfway across the room before he even realizes he’s stood up. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but he has to talk to Jack. His hand is on the door marked _Employees Only_ when it opens from the other side, and he’s face-to-face with Shitty Knight.

“Uh...hi, Shitty,” he stammers.

Shitty’s grin is almost feral. “Hi, Holster!” he exclaims. “Hey, quick question: what the fuck?”

“Jack called you, I’m guessing?”

Shitty draws him into a corner. “Yes he did, and he mentioned that you were having quite the after-work team-building excursion to our humble bar! Which leads me to inquire - and forgive me for repeating myself - what the _actual fuck_?”

“I know,” Holster sighs. “I fucked up, I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize to me, I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”

“I know.”

“Look, man, you seem cool and all, but you gotta know: Jack’s been through a lot of shit, starting when he was a pretty young kid. All he wants is to be _left alone_. He’s earned that. If he can’t do that and still do…” Shitty waves his hand as if to indicate Holster’s whole endealment, “...whatever it is you’re doing together, then you should walk away.”

Holster nods toward the door. “He still back there?”

“No, he left as soon as I got here.”

Holster turns to walk away. “I have to talk to him, I have to explain -”

Shitty grabs his arm. “If you show up at my house tonight, Lardo will almost certainly cut you.” He must see something in Holster’s face, because his expression softens a bit. “Listen. You want to apologize? You want to explain? Call him tomorrow. Nothing you have to say can’t wait until tomorrow. Tonight, _leave him alone._ And, pro tip?” Shitty nods toward the table full of hockey players. “Next time you have a date, don’t bring your boyfriend.”

“What?” Holster glances back to where Ransom is watching them with a concerned little frown. “He’s not my -”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Chowder is starting to panic over there, which means we are five minutes away, max, from a major spill or breakage event.”

Holster tells the other guys he’s heading out; he and Ransom catch a Lyft.

 _I’m really sorry,_ he texts Jack from the backseat. _I shouldn’t have brought them. I’ll call you tomorrow._

The next morning, he wakes up feeling like 12 kinds of shit. He never drinks enough during the season to be anything approaching hung over, but it had been a late night, and the creeping certainty that he’s ruined whatever he and Jack had going settles around his neck and shoulders like a heavy yoke he can’t take off.

He drags his ass through morning cardio; fortunately, Ransom either senses his mood or also feels like shit, so they run in more or less total silence. He wonders how early in the day he can get away with calling Jack. He tries to think of what he can even say. _Sorry I’m a 26-year-old man who’s still susceptible to peer pressure? Sorry I brought half a dozen dudes to our casual date? I keep thinking about your upper lip and it’s making me fidget?_

At lunch time he decides Jack must be awake by now. He ducks out of the lunchroom and finds a quiet spot where he won’t be disturbed; his heart is pounding by the time he brings the phone to his ear, so he does some quick lunges in place to try to burn off some energy and get it back under control.

“Hi,” Jack says.

“Hey, um, it’s Holster.”

“I know. The phone tells me it’s you.”

“Right! Right. Ha. Um...so, listen. I want to apologize for showing up with those guys last night.”

Jack is silent on the other end; Holster has to check his phone briefly to make sure he hasn’t hung up. He gulps and keeps going. “I...they overheard me mention to Ransom that I was going to George’s, and then they all wanted to come, and I…” he sighs. “I don’t know. I felt like if I didn’t let them come, that it would seem, like, suspicious? And I guess I was just...hoping it would be OK. But that’s not, like, an actual great strategy or plan.”

“Nope.”

“And I know that you try to steer clear of the whole...NHL thing. And I get why. And I know you wanted to take things slow, and me showing up at your work with a bunch of my teammates is...it wasn’t cool. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“It...you should know…” Jack clears his throat. “It’s hard for me. Because I had something that I really loved, that I was really good at, and it almost destroyed me. And it took me a long time to come back from that. I mean, maybe my life isn’t much to brag about, I’m a part-time hockey coach, I tend bar to get by, but it’s my life, and I’ve worked hard for it.”

“I get that. Really, I do.”

“People who know about me...they look at me in a certain way. Not you, that was one of the things I liked about you, but, people do.” Holster cringes, noting the past tense, but Jack is still talking. “I’m not some washed-up burnout, Holster. And I won’t let people treat me like that’s all I am. If we’re going to...date, or whatever, I need to be sure you know that.”

“I do know that. I don’t think that about you. I wouldn’t think that about you.”

Jack’s voice is small. “I didn’t think you would.”

Holster takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry, Jack. I know you have no reason to trust me right now, but I really like you. I _really_ like you. I think this, with us, I think it could be something. And if you give me another chance, I promise I will do everything in my power to keep that part of my life from messing with yours.” There’s a long silence on the other end. “Jack?”

“...OK.”

“OK?”

“OK, I accept your apology.”

Holster does a little one-person version of his and Ransom’s victory dance, but tries to keep his voice smooth. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do,” Jack sighs.

“So...where does that leave us?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’m gonna...I may need some time.”

“Let me do something to make this up to you,” Holster blurts out. “Let me...I don’t know...I could do something for the team you coach. Donate some equipment, or set up a tour of the arena, or something. Would you let me do that?”

“They’ve been on a million tours of the arena, we go every year,” Jack says. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice. Holster’s reminded of their first conversation, unable to see Jack’s face, listening for the barest hint of a change in tone.

“Something else, then,” Holster suggests. He’s in an expansive mood. If Jack wants him to fly his whole pee-wee team to Montréal for french fries and gravy, Holster will do it. _Wait, how many kids are on a pee-wee team? It doesn’t matter._ “I could get them tickets to a game.”

“They would love that,” Jack admits.

“As long as it makes you look cool to them.”

“Yes, that’s my biggest ambition in life, looking cool to 11-year-olds.”

Jack’s voice is wry, but fond. Holster feels relief washing over him like warm water. He leans against the wall, twitterpated. “Well then,” he says, “as long as I’m helping you achieve your ambitions, I don’t suppose they’d...want to meet an NHL player? I could come to one of your practices.”

Jack doesn’t say anything, and Holster feels a flash of worry that he’s pushing too far, too fast, too soon. After a moment, Jack says, “You...would do that?”

“Only if you want me to,” Holster adds hastily, “but yeah.” He only had the idea five seconds ago, but he’s starting to really warm to it. “I could come toward the end, so I’m not disrupting your whole practice, sign some autographs, maybe give them some kind of, I don’t know, ‘stay in school’ talk.”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” Jack says. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea to be dating you, and this doesn’t change that.”

“I know. And that’s OK with me. I said I was OK with taking things slow, and I still am. But I’d still like to do this for you, if you’d like me to.”

“That would be…” he can hear Jack take a deep breath. “That would be really nice of you, Holster, thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Holster grins. “Besides, I want to see you coach.”

~*~

The keg is just not pouring well. Jack’s checked the lines, the regulator, even taken apart the faucet and put it back together; it just won’t stop spewing foam. He’s starting to worry that the temperature is off, or the thermometer is broken, or something, all of which would be above his pay grade to fix. It’s time to call George.

He’s just hanging up the phone (and hoping nobody desperately needs a Stella Artois until George can get there), when in walks a tall, lanky, gorgeous NHL player. Too bad it’s not the one he’s been thinking about all day.

“Hey,” Ransom says, taking a seat at the bar. “Can I talk to you?”

“Beer?” Jack responds, which isn’t really an answer, but this is a bar, and Jack needs a moment to collect himself. Ransom orders a Bud Light, and Jack takes his time grabbing a clean glass, walking over to the taps, and filling it.

He was so overwhelmed by Holster’s apology earlier that day, he’d completely forgotten to ask Holster, once and for all, what the deal was with him and Ransom. Shitty, of course, had argued that Jack hadn’t really forgotten at all: “Pretending it’s not a problem isn’t going to make it go away, bro.” Jack thinks about Holster’s earnestness, his enthusiasm, the way he tends to just blurt things out, and has a hard time believing that Holster could really be unfaithful to someone he was in a serious relationship with. And even if he could, surely he wouldn’t bring Ransom back here, multiple times, while Holster hit on Jack, right? That’s just not the vibe Jack has gotten from him at all.

“Just be careful,” Lardo had cautioned him. “You’re too great to be anybody’s side piece.” Jack had had to Google _side piece_ , but he agreed with her, even if he was pretty sure that wasn’t what was going on.

Or he _had_ been sure, anyway, until he found himself executing the most careful pour of Bud Light in bartending history under the watchful eye of Justin Oluransi. _I kissed your boyfriend,_ Jack thinks again. He hopes Ransom’s not there to kick his ass; Jack stays in shape, but there’s a difference between “professional athlete” and “guy who tries to get to the gym when he can,” not to mention that Jack’s never actually been in a fight off of the ice.

Finally, there is no way to prolong pouring the beer, so Jack is forced to bring it back and set it in front of Ransom. He stands there, waiting, sure that there’s something he should say, but with no idea of what that would be.

“Thanks,” Ransom says. Then he surprises the hell out of Jack by saying, “Hey, I’m sorry about the other night. We totally didn’t mean to descend on your bar with a big group.”

“Oh...that’s OK,” Jack falters. “Holster already...explained everything.” His back is sweating. Should he not have mentioned that he’s talked to Holster?

“Good, that’s good,” Ransom murmurs, nodding. Jack nods, too. They both just kind of nod at each other for a minute. “Look,” Ransom finally says. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here, but I just wanted to - Holster was really broken up by the idea that he might have made things weird between you. And I know it’s none of my business, but I just wanted to come by and say, if you haven’t made up your mind one way or the other…” he looks Jack in the eye. “You should give him a chance.”

Jack is transfixed to the spot with surprise. He tries to conjure up some kind of word, but the best he can do is a sound, and the sound is, “Oh?”

Ransom nods again, more vigorously this time. “Yes. Definitely. Holster is great. I know he can sometimes be a little thoughtless, but it’s only because he cares so much about stuff, sometimes he can forget to pay attention to the other things that are going on. He’s a genuinely kind and honest person, and he’s just the most loyal dude I’ve ever known. He’s fun at parties, he has great taste in movies, and his mom makes the best rugelach in the world, if you’re into baked goods.”

“If he’s so great,” Jack asks, wiping his palms on his apron, “why don’t you date him?”

He’s half expecting Ransom to take offense, but Ransom just chuckles. “Oh, trust me, dude, I would _love_ to. I would make Adam Birkholtz the happiest man in the world, if I could. It’s just…” Ransom drops his head into his hands. “I’m straight,” he says with a rueful laugh. “I am just so, so straight.”

The tiny muscles in Jack’s scalp and neck relax, releasing tension he hadn’t even been aware he was holding there. He starts to laugh along with Ransom.

“I wish I weren’t sometimes, you know?” Ransom continues. “As it is, I’m just going to hope someday I meet a woman who’s cool with my having a platonic life partner.”

Jack keeps laughing. He can’t help it. He thought he was going to get a _hands-off-my-man_ talk, and instead he’s getting the most bizarre wooing by proxy he’s ever experienced.

“He’s really into you,” Ransom says. “I mean, if nothing else, he finally has somebody to watch _Cheers_ with him.”

“You don’t like _Cheers_?” Jask asks, surprised. Holster had given him the impression that everybody liked _Cheers._

Ransom shrugs. “It’s fine, I guess, I just don’t love it the way he does, you know?”

“But you’ve seen it,” Jack presses, realizing he finally has someone to talk to about something that’s been bothering him.

“Yeah, I live with the guy, I’ve seen _Cheers._ ”

“Do you think Holster kind of sounds like…”

“ _Cliff Clavin!?_ ” Ransom squeals. “YES! Yes, he totally does! ‘Ah, hey there, Normie,’” he continues in what is either a terrible Cliff Clavin impression or a slightly less terrible Holster impression. “Do not say that to Holster, though, he gets _so offended!_ ” In the same terrible impression voice: “‘I’m from Buffalo, not Boston, I don’t sound anything like that.’ Yeah right, bro.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack chuckles.

Ransom gazes up at him, eyes suddenly big and solemn. “So what do you say, Jack? Will you give my bro another shot?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jack replies, feeling the corners of his mouth drawing up in a smile.

~*~

Holster tries to enter the ice rink as unobtrusively as possible; he’d meant what he said about not disrupting Jack’s practice. Plus, it gives him a moment to watch Jack.

Jack is as graceful on the ice as Holster remembers from that first 16-year-old crush; it’s as though Jack’s regular feet are a secondary form, and skates are his natural state, like Jack is some kind of...ice...merman, _OK, never say that thought out loud to anyone, ever._

Holster’s had some occasion to know the solid musculature of Jack’s body - that brief caress of the bare skin under Jack’s t-shirt seems like it’s burned into the nerves of his hand - but watching Jack skate, he’s able to see that body put to new use. Jack has power, he has control, he has precision. _He could have been great_ , Holster thinks.

But that’s not what Jack wants, and as long as Holster’s looking for the hockey great Jack might have been, he’s never going to get closer to the person Jack is now: sweet, thoughtful, a little quiet, a little grumpy, wounded, but thriving.

Holster drags his thoughts away from the wordless perfection that is Jack’s movement on the ice (and drags his eyes away from the breathtaking spectacle of Jack’s ass flexing as he skates) and starts surveying the team. They look like a solid group, some obviously with more natural athletic ability than others, but functioning well as a unit. He watches as Jack leads them through some drills, calling encouragement and corrections, spending some extra time with a player here and there. When the drill isn’t to Jack’s satisfaction, he makes them run it again. And again.

Holster’s certainly been on the receiving end of this sort of repetitive drilling enough in his life, but watching it through this new lens - trying to see it from Jack’s perspective - he can see that Jack is incredibly patient with his players. He’s clearly not the kind of coach who screams and throws things, which can be an effective coaching technique, but in Holster’s professional opinion, totally blows. In fact, in classic Jack fashion, Jack’s not saying much at all - but when he does speak, Holster can see that the kids are hanging on every word.

Jack finally sees him standing there, and his face breaks into a soft, unguarded smile. Holster feels something shivery in his chest, like he’s standing on a cliff or walking through a silent forest, something like awe. He wants to skate out to Jack, feel the chill of his cheeks stung pink by the cold, bury his face in Jack’s throat, fill his eyes and nose and mouth with him. He wants to hold up a boombox under Jack’s window, stand behind him on the prow of the Titanic, kiss him in the rain.

Instead, he gives a stilted talk to a bunch of sweaty pre-teens about the importance of good nutrition, practicing hard, and listening to what your teachers and coaches say.

“Did Coach Z tell you to say that?” one kid asks. He’s freckled and skeptical and so exactly like Dex that Holster just wants to hug him and tell him to settle down.

Instead, he says matter-of-factly, “No. It’s just common sense. If you want to be good at something, learn from someone who knows how to do it. Trust me, I’ve been playing hockey since I was 5 years old. I’ve had a lot of coaches, and your Coach Z is a good one.” He sneaks a glance over at Jack, who’s smiling that same soft smile, and feels a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.

Holster signs a passel of autographs and poses for a few photos before the kids’ parents arrive to pick them up, then signs another round of autographs and takes some selfies with the parents. By the time he’s done, Jack has rounded up most of the equipment and put the practice goals away. He skates a lazy loop around the ice, checking to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, and now that they’re alone on the ice, Holster indulges openly in the simple pleasure of watching Jack skate.

His circuit completed, Jack slides to a stop in front of Holster. “What?”

Holster wants to touch him so badly, wants to reach out and push the hair back from Jack’s forehead, slip his arms around Jack’s waist. He knows he hasn’t earned that, though, so he just looks at him. “You’re a beautiful skater.”

Jack shrugs. “I’ve been skating practically since I could walk.”

“So have I,” Holster laughs, “and I don’t look like that. Trust me, this week would be a lot less intimidating if I did.”

“What’s happening this week?” Jack moves past him to the bench and starts unlacing his skates.

Holster sits down heavily beside him. “Oh, I have to do an interview for a magazine, and I’m really dreading the photo shoot. I feel like they’re going to expect me to be this, like, sexy toned athlete, and then I’m gonna get there and just be elbows and knees for miles and miles, and they’re gonna be like, ‘Actually, never mind.’”

Jack frowns. “But you _are_ a sexy toned athlete.”

A nervous chuckle bubbles out of Holster; he can feel his face heating up. “I - well - thank you, but I’m really not. I have, like, the muscles and everything, but for some reason on me they just make me look like a pasty orc instead of like Tom Brady or whoever.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Tom Brady? He’s the quarterback of the -”

“No, I know who Tom Brady is,” Jack rolls his eyes, “but what does _orc_ mean?”

“Have you seriously neither seen nor read _Lord of the Rings?_ Jack, seriously, it’s like you’re from another planet sometimes!” Holster’s mind is reeling as he attempts to process this new information. This simply won’t do, it won’t do at all. “OK, so: what do your next couple weeks look like? Because you’re gonna need to carve out a 9-hour slot for us to watch all 3 _Lord of the Rings_ movies, and I should probably do some prep work with you ahead of time so you can get, like, into the groove of the story. First question: do you know what hobbits are?”

Jack doesn’t answer; he just smiles and shakes his head.

“What?”

Jack keeps shaking his head. “You seriously have no idea how hot you are.”

All the movie marathon plans drop completely from Holster’s mind. “I...really?”

Jack ducks his head, but scoots closer until they’re leaning up against each other, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, like they had been the day they kissed. “I think you are,” he says quietly. “I even thought you were hot with your eyes all dilated.”

Holster swallows, staring at his feet. He’s afraid to talk or move or even breathe, feeling this moment fragile as a soap bubble between them. “Thank you,” he finally mumbles, feeling raw and defenseless. He glances up into Jack’s face, and sees that same vulnerability reflected there. Jack brings a hand up to softly cup Holster’s jaw.

Holster lets Jack draw him forward, leaning into the first brush of Jack’s lips against his. Slowly, hesitantly, Holster slides his arms around Jack’s waist, their knees bumping together as they turn to face each other. Jack sighs into his mouth and kisses him again, lips parted, soft and sweet. Holster finally lets his hands move, into Jack’s hair, down the smooth lines of his neck, caressing his back, but careful to keep his touch light and relatively chaste. Jack makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat that travels directly to the base of Holster’s spine; he knows he’ll be having weeks of sweet dreams just about that small, breathy little noise.

Reluctantly, Holster pulls back from the kiss. He leans his forehead against Jack’s, still stroking a hand gently up and down Jack’s bicep. “Are you sure you want to be doing this?”

Jack smiles, a little shakily. “Yeah, but we should probably stop.”

“Because we’re taking it slow.”

“Yeah.” Jack’s rich, low voice has an added husky quality to it that makes Holster want to swoon. “But also because we’re making out at a hockey rink, and I’m supposed to lock up.”

~*~

The prep for the photo shoot is so bizarre, Holster almost forgets to be self-conscious. They give him a spray tan, which, he can see their point on that one. They put makeup on him while falling all over themselves to reassure him that everyone wears makeup at these things, as though he’s about to throw a macho tantrum over some eyeliner; he looks at the makeup people with new respect as he realizes that that has definitely, 100%, happened to them here before.

He’s relieved to learn that nobody expects him to take his shirt off, but they do put him in what Jonathan Van Ness on Queer Eye calls a “wife-lover” shirt, and spritz him all over with this weird concoction that’s supposed to make him look sweaty. He’s greasy and exhausted and his contacts are itching and they haven’t even started the shoot yet.

When he finally sits down in front of the camera (they’re photographing him in an ersatz weight room, but holding some real weights), the nerves start jumping again in his stomach. He tries not to think about his knobby elbows or his giant teeth or his weirdly protruding collarbones, and gives them his attempt at a normal-looking smile.

“That’s great, Adam,” the photographer says. “But you don’t need to smile like it’s school picture day. Try letting your face be more natural.”

Holster has no idea what that means. He kind of lets his face go slack.

The photographer huffs a little. “Um...maybe not like that. Try...try thinking about winning a game. You guys had a close one with that W the other night, right? Try thinking about that.”

Holster thinks about winning a game. He mentally goes over the steps of his victory dance with Ransom, the team’s faces in the locker room after a victory, the time he got Ransom a goal for his birthday.

“That’s good! Better,” the photographer encourages him, snapping away. “OK, let’s try for something with a bit more smolder in it, all right?”

“Uh...all right,” Holster replies dubiously. Smolder? He tries for sort of a Dos Equis Man squint.

“Do you have something in your eye?” the PA for the shoot asks. “We can stop if you need a second.”

“No, I’m good,” Holster mumbles, hoping the spray tan will mitigate his blush.

“Try thinking about something sexy,” suggests the photographer, “or someone sexy. Somebody who makes you feel good. Big NHL star like you must kill it with the ladies. I bet you have a sexy little thing or two stashed away somewhere, am I right?”

Holster does not tell him _women aren’t things and anyway who says I date women in the first place,_ mostly because Holster is very tired and this whole thing is weird. Instead, he takes a deep breath. _Somebody sexy_. He thinks about Jack: Jack’s sure, long-fingered hands; his smooth skin; the way he moves. Jack’s ass in jeans, Jack’s crooked little smile. He feels an answering smile coming to his face.

“Good, that’s very good,” the photographer is saying, but Holster can’t even hear him now. He’s thinking about Jack’s kind, sincere face as he gave encouragement to the kids he coaches; the mischief in Jack’s eyes when he’s chirping someone; Jack shaking his head, smiling, saying you have no idea how hot you are.

Holster is greasy and tired and uncomfortable, but none of that matters, because after this, he’s going to go home and call Jack, and the two of them are going to talk on the phone while watching an episode of _Cheers_ together. And tomorrow, he’s going to take Jack on a real date, to a place that is neither Jack’s home nor any of the places Jack works, and afterwards he’s going to get to kiss Jack, and touch him, and hold him, and who knows what will happen after that? Maybe nothing, but that’s OK, because he and Jack are taking it slow, which means there’s a place to take it.

“That’s great, Adam! Really great! I think we’ve got it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some sweet and fluffy JackHoltz for halfabreath. I have to say I've never written this particular pairing before, but now I'm totally into it - so thanks for the new 'ship, and Happy 'SwawesomeSanta! 
> 
> Thanks as always to laurens, the best beta anyone could ask for.
> 
> Come say hi in the comments!


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